


Peppermint Tea with Milk and Sugar (Served in a Tacky Mug)

by RainingPrince



Series: Theoretically Canon-Compliant but largely unrelated Good Omens shorts [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Conversations, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Marijuana, POV Outsider, Weed, post-armageddon't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-14 10:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainingPrince/pseuds/RainingPrince
Summary: The stranger stops, sniffs the air, and looks over at the source of the smell. “Is that cannabis?”“Yeah, it’s some good shit too.”The look on the stranger’s face turned immediately to nostalgia, “I haven’t had any cannabis in a very long time.”Maika considered this stranger for a moment. Blonde hair, bow-tie, hardly looked dressed for warm weather in that disaster of a cardigan. “... Do you want some?”~In which a random American tourist meets an Angel behind a neat old bookshop and has a conversation they will never forget.





	Peppermint Tea with Milk and Sugar (Served in a Tacky Mug)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Regulars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056270) by [irisbleufic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic). 

> It’s probably a ways off but, if anyone manages to catch a screenshot of this fic at 420 notes make sure to comment and show me. The first person gets to prompt a fic.
> 
> ! I used the word "batty" in here which I'm mentioning just in case ahead of time.  
! Warning for weed/marijuana/cannabis/pot use and other drug mentions.
> 
> Songs Maika was listening to based on what was stuck in my head while writing this:  
Waterbed - Hearts and Colors  
Sleepover - Hayley Kiyoko  
Otter Pop - Shawn Wasabi

There is a tiny little alley squeezed between an old haberdashery and an older bookshop in London, Soho. On a warm, bright evening in the middle of Summer, a sliver of sun hits the back of the bookshop just right; blanketing the cobblestones below in a cozy glow. The space was designed for the loading and unloading of merchandise between the two shops, however it hasn’t seen much activity of the sort in recent years. It’s a quiet little spot now, and very few people ever go back there.

Those that do, however, usually feel indescribably safe and protected, like somewhere nearby there is someone looking out for them.

On just such an evening, a Tuesday if one cares to know, a 23 year old arts-major sits in a folding chair with their feet resting lightly on the wall. They don’t sit in a manner that their aunts would have approved of; however they are on vacation, and while on vacation they prefer to lounge lackadaisically over the flimsy arms of the chair. One plastic arm is slowly sinking under their head, and they are forced to increasingly sit up higher and higher to reach the little spotted glass piece as they take slow hits. They’ve already readjusted the arm three times and are starting not to care if it falls again.

Their hair is long, teasing peacefully over their face in the gentle breeze, and they close their eyes to take in the sensation.

There were things that they really did not want to think about just now, a bad taste rolled around at the back of their skull and they were humming along to the tune of a really good song in an effort to drown it out.

An earbud was slowly slipping out of one ear and it was almost a welcome distraction. The sensation of gravity pulling the plastic across the delicate skin was better than the music for drowning things. It was certainly maddening.

As was the feeling of the sunglasses, sitting in a manner bordering on the uncomfortable against the widest part of the bridge and pinching ever so slightly.

Smoking, in Maika’s opinion, is not something best done alone. At the very least, a bird or a rat to talk to is better than nothing, but an interlocutor is far better because the conversation always feels more satisfying with a two-way exchange of words and sounds; rather than a one-sided rant or pleasant chit-chat uttered in the direction a large rubber plant at the mall while one’s mother spends a very long seventeen minutes deciding between the brown, the green, or the purple shoes.

When the earbud finally fell out and across their shoulder, new sounds could suddenly be heard. Footsteps coming up the alleyway, a quiet muttering, and a ring of keys pulled from a slightly too-small pocket.

Maika opens their eyes to watch as a person with light hair and straight, controlled posture walks to the back door of the bookshop and raises the keys to the lock. A tote bag featuring a whimsical rendering of a variety of pastries is hung delicately over one elbow.

The stranger stops in his tracks, sniffs the air, and looks over at the source of the smell. “Is that cannabis?”

It normally would have occurred to Maika to be wary about to whom you confess such things. It had come back to bite them in the ass before, telling the wrong person. Or at the very least worry about being caught and chewed out, which always managed to ruin the mood. But for whatever reason, on this sunny evening, warm for London but very comfortable for their American background, it didn’t even cross their mind. “Yeah, it’s some good shit too.”

The look on the stranger’s face turned immediately to nostalgia, and in a very soft voice, soft enough Maika wasn’t even sure they’d heard right, a whisper tumbled free from his lips. “I haven’t had any cannabis in a very long time.”

Maika considered this stranger for a moment. Blonde hair, bow-tie, hardly looked dressed for warm weather in that disaster of a cardigan. “... Do you want some?”

The stranger had once again raised the keys to the door, but stopped to consider the offer. A smile bloomed on his face. “Let me just drop these off inside, I’ll be but a minute.” He disappeared into the bookshop.

They closed their eyes again, realizing that the song they had been listening to was now over, and a new one had turned on while attention had been directed elsewhere. It took a couple seconds to find their place among the lyrics.

For 3 minutes and 17 seconds Maika increasingly worried that the stranger had just been being polite and wasn’t actually interested. That they had severely misjudged the situation, and they were going to have to find another quiet corner to smoke in because the embarrassment of coming back here would be too much. They'd only been in Soho for a couple of weeks, but they'd grown attached to this tiny little stretch of cobblestones and the way the traffic sounded so far away.

The door opened again, and the stranger returned. 

It felt like a victory, almost; the tiny little party you throw in your head when your eyeliner turns out perfectly symmetrical, or you somehow manage to fold and throw a perfect paper airplane. The stranger had brought his own folding chair, and he set it up a few feet away, just close enough to be respectful.

They clicked off the music, and reached out to offer a fist bump. “The name’s Maika. They/Them.”

The proffered fist was met with a look of such confusion that a giggle escaped their lips before they could stop it. He didn’t look offended. “You make a fist, and we bump our knuckles together.”

A flash of confusion, “Why?”

“Honestly I just don’t like the feel of a handshake, too sweaty. This is much more comfortable.”

He considered the fist again, before hesitantly completing the bump with an anticlimactic brush of knuckles. “Aziraphale, ‘he’ is fine.”

This sort of name hardly surprised Maika, who had previously spent time in the company of people with monikers as unusual as Leviathan, Void, Odin, Foxglove, and two very different people named Princess.

Remembering the reason that Aziraphale was sitting out here with them, Maika picked up the glass piece sitting on their leg, and sat up to refill it. As they were pulling the plastic container from their pocket, they also remembered the sentence which had prompted this unexpected company. “How long has it been, exactly?”

“Many decades, really.”

“Why so long?”

“It was the 60’s. Hasn’t come up since.”

“The 60’s?” Aziraphale didn’t look a day over 47. “What were you, a toddler? How old are you?”

“I hardly think that’s relevant.” It was conveyed with only a touch of defensiveness.

The newly refilled bowl was offered to Aziraphale. “You want to start it?”

“Oh, thank you.” he took the bowl and lit it with a practiced flourish. For someone who claimed to be that out of practice he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

“Damn son, not even a cough! You sure it’s been fifty-some years?”

Aziraphale suddenly did splutter, though Maika suspected this was unrelated to the smoke. He nearly dropped the lighter, and handed the piece back before he could drop it too. “I haven’t stopped smoking, just not weed.” He said. And then, in another whisper Maika wasn't sure they heard correctly, "More like a hundred and fifty."

“Sure,” This stranger was quite entertaining, they decided, and took a drag. “So, what were you up to the last time you did this?”

“Oh! I met a lovely man named John who taught me some card tricks. We had a lot of fun! It was just after-” He paused. A memory passed over his entirety; a heavy, painful tug that Maika could almost taste, brushing sluggishly along the edges of their perception. And then it was gone. “After I helped some suffragette’s build a campaign.”

It didn’t sound like the thought which had originally belonged at the end of that sentence, but something told the kid that pushing the subject would not end well. Sympathetically, they offered the bowl back to Aziraphale.

He took it with gratitude, and took another long pull. This time he coughed politely, passed the piece back, and stood up. “Would you like some tea? I’ve got peppermint.”

“How did you know?” They had been in many houses in London over the past two weeks and not a single one had any Peppermint Tea.

“I have an instinct,” he winked. “Milk and sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

This time when Aziraphale disappeared, it wasn’t as worrisome.

* * *

The two spent another half hour or so just chatting. As the weed sunk in, Aziraphale told increasingly ridiculous stories about his past. He talked about being in Rome for a time, but he made it sound as if it had been thousands of years ago. He talked about Stonewall, Shakespeare, and Wessex. He talked about building churches in Mexico and extravagant parties in Venice.

Maika figured he was batty, but he was just so _ fascinating _.

Though his stories were varied, sometimes complicated and in many ways seemingly irrational; one concrete concept kept popping up- a name, a companion, a friend, perhaps something more. This idea was far more understandable to Maika’s brain than say, a man who lived in ancient Mesopotamia and was still alive to tell about it in 2019. Though they were a firm believer in the concept of reincarnation, (and truth be told, magic) the level of detail this man retained seemed a little dubious even to them.

“Tell me more about Crowley.” They finally set the empty mug down on the ground. It was an off-white mug with tacky but adorable angel wings sticking out in place of a handle. They had held the thing for nearly 30 minutes and still could not figure out how it was supposed to sit in their hands.

“Oh, I hardly think he’s the most interesting thing about this story-”

“I think he is. Or at least, he seems a constant in your life, one of the few constants. And he means a lot to you.”

“He does mean a great deal to me.” Aziraphale smiled peacefully, setting down his own mug which sported a pattern not unlike the bowtie hanging loosely around his neck. He clearly had a proclivity.

“Have you told him as much?”

He almost seemed to glow, the smile growing wider and wider as he looked down at his hands on his knees. “Oh yes, but he beat me to it. Right after the world didn’t end.”

This comment would have been worrisome, but only in the most abstract way. Given the rest of the conversation so far it didn’t feel out of place. “I take it it went well?”

“Very well.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

The smell of the smoke had long since dissipated, and the conversation had mostly dissolved into giggles and quiet musings. The piece had been emptied and forgotten, sitting in the chair’s cup holder, and Maika noticed with a twinge of disappointment that the sun had disappeared. The alleyway was much darker than it had been when they sat down. Yet somehow, the cozy glow still hung in the air, and it was warmer than expected after dark. It had become a liminal space in the most pleasant way, and they kept their voices down so as not to disturb the pleasant tension in the air.

"I still can't believe he talked me into it by bringing up sushi." Aziraphale whispered, and Maika realized they had absolutely no idea what he had been talking about.

"I dunno, you could get me to do a lot for a good salmon sashimi." They responded, hoping this would be a sufficient answer without any context. "Or a creamy scallop, I love a creamy scallop."

Aziraphale giggled, "Scallops...." He played with the word, rolling it over his tongue and drawing out the 'S's at each end . "Not the best conversationalists."

"I wouldn't imagine so."

The back door of the bookshop opened suddenly, and both Maika and Aziraphale jumped in surprise at the loud clunking sound. “Is that you, Aziraphale?” Came a voice from not very far away.

Looking up, the student took in another stranger, with short red hair and sunglasses. He was hanging halfway out the back door of the bookshop.

“Did we have plans, dear?” Aziraphale looked sheepish. “I’m sorry if I forgot, I got so caught up in conversation.”

“Nah, no plans. I brought you something. Who’s this?” The redhead asked.

“Maika. They.” They threw in a peace sign for good measure.

“Crowley… he for now, sometimes it changes.”

“Ah, so this is the famous Crowley!” Maika turned to tease Aziraphale, who swatted the air between them playfully.

“Oh hush you,”

“Famous? You’ve been talking about me?” Crowley moved with all the sinewy grace of a reptile, leaving the doorway and stepping out into the alley. He walked over and assembled himself against a wall, one foot up, carefully crafting a pose which spoke volumes of absentminded and unintended elegance. He had a box in his hand, wrapped in brown paper with a ribbon, draped over one elbow as he crossed his arms.

“Only the nicest things.” Maika promised. “It’s disgusting really.”

“I think it’s the cannabis,” Aziraphale said, suddenly sounding a little drowsy. “I tend to gush, I suppose that’s why it’s been so long.”

“Canna-wh- Weed? You’ve been smoking weed?” This seemed to both scandalize and delight the newcomer.

“Like a pro.” Maika added, gleefully.

“Like you have any room to judge, my dear.” Aziraphale said. “Do you remember when I caught you in 1370-something? I seem to recall I found you in an Opium den in India.”

“Yes, but you didn't even deign to share a hit with me back then.” The grin that spread across Crowley's face vividly reminded Maika of something, but it was gone in an instant and quickly forgotten.

“I do apologize my dear. It was very early, and our Arrangement had barely gotten off the ground yet.” Aziraphale reached his hand out, inviting Crowley to him.

And with no hesitation, Crowley walked forward and took it. “No need, but if you're at all interested Angel, I may have a hook-up.”

"I think one mind-altering substance per century is quite enough for me." Aziraphale paused, and then added: "Except wine." He nodded decidedly. And then he noticed the gift, "Are those chocolates from the shop near your flat?"

Maika couldn't help the smile that washed over their face. It was a truly touching moment to see two people look at each other with such trust and adoration. They wished that that kind of intimacy was more ubiquitous. They weren't the sort to pine after a person, nor were they particularly interested in dating; but if they met someone who made them smile like Aziraphale did in that very minute, they wouldn't say no.

“I should get back soon, my friend will be worried about me.” Maika stood up, dropped the glass piece back in their pocket, and began to fold up the chair. They carefully slipped it into the sleeve for easy transportation. For a fraction of a second, they wondered where the tacky mug had gone; they didn't recall anyone picking it up or taking it back inside but it was nowhere to be seen. There were more important things to think about. “It was really lovely meeting you, Aziraphale, Crowley. Thank you so much for the tea!,” they popped their earbuds back in their ears and gave a little wave.

"Thank you for keeping this dusty old fop occupied for a while," Crowley teased. "He spends far too much time with his nose in a book."

"My pleasure." Maika winked.

Aziraphale ignored the exchange. “It was absolutely wonderful to meet you as well.” He beamed. “I hope your vacation has been just what you needed, and something tells me that tomorrow will be even better!” There was a mischievous gleam in his eye, but it came with a smile so warm it couldn't have been anything other than genuine.

“I look forward to seeing how it turns out!” And they did.

As they left the little alleyway, chair strap swung over their shoulder and sunglasses balanced on the top of their head, it occurred to Maika that Crowley hadn’t corrected Aziraphale on the mention of the 1300s. He had rather played along, perhaps it was an inside joke?

Stranger things they decided, and shook it off, hitting play on the next song.

**Author's Note:**

> I bought the mug. I can't figure out how to hold it. I'm still salty about this.
> 
> ...... Had an interesting interaction recently and I just kinda needed an excuse to get some feelings out.
> 
> This was sort of designed to be like, right after Armageddidn't, like maybe less than a week, and Aziraphale is coming home kinda tired and still reeling and he takes the opportunity to let loose. I also tend to focus more on Crowley lately so this felt like a good excuse to diversify.
> 
> If you're interested please check out this blog, https://ineffable-timeline.tumblr.com/ it needs a lot of help but I created it to write canon-compliant fiction and the more complete this blog is the better the compliance.


End file.
